The Posterchildren: Origins Page 6

  Mal nodded, shouldering his bookbag.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for breakfast, Mother.”

  °

  The oven timer shrieked, startling Ernest awake. His elbow caught the cup of coffee that he’d poured but hadn’t drank, bumping it off the kitchen table. It being his luck, the mug shattered as soon as it hit the tile. Ernest lunged for the oven, turning off the alarm and rescuing his lemon poppy seed muffins before they burned. When his dad was home, he woke Ernest up with breakfast. It’d been a regular thing when he’d been little, but the Commander had been in high demand ever since establishing himself as a capable and reliable day-saver. The way that Ernest liked to look at it, his dad’s busy schedule just made their rare breakfasts together more special. He didn’t mind.

  Setting the timer had been a really good idea, he thought as he inspected his handiwork. When he got up early to bake things, he set the timer and snoozed before class. Ernest popped half a muffin in his mouth, sampling it for any traces of smokiness. They were still too hot for anyone else to eat, but they were deliciously lemony.

  He sidestepped the shards of ceramic and the spreading inky puddle as he crossed the kitchen. He wouldn’t cut himself any more than he’d burn his bare hands on the muffin tin that he was carrying, but Ernest didn’t want to ruin his socks. Coffee stains were a pain and a half to wash out. He set the muffins down on the counter and glanced at the clock.

  And according to the clock on the microwave, he had exactly twelve minutes to get to his first period class. He had twelve minutes, and he was still in his socks and underwear.

  “Nuts!” Ernest swore, skidding around the corner and taking the stairs up to his room three at a time. Long legs had to be good for something, he figured, and today he hoped that something was getting his keister to class before the bell rang. He sniff-tested three training shirts before he found one that was wearable. He had no choice but to leave the muffin mess in the kitchen sink. He’d apologize to his father later.

  Ernest didn’t bother tying his shoes before thundering back downstairs. He dumped the muffins in a plastic bag and started running. There was someone ahead of him on the trail toward the main part of campus, a misty smudge of black and navy in the distance. As he got closer, he recognized the smudge’s aggressive slouch. Ernest slowed down to a trot, smiling widely.

  It’d been two years since the last time Ernest had seen Mal Underwood face-to-face. He was taller and had put on muscle and weight, but other than that, his childhood friend looked almost the same. Outside of the fancy annual parties that their parents dragged them to, Ernest couldn’t remember ever seeing Mal in anything but navy sweatshirts thrown overtop the standard training duds. He was a practical kind of guy.

  “Morning, Mal!”

  “Hello, Ernest,” Mal said, acknowledging him with a nod. “You look well. Inheriting your father’s height, I see.”

  “You too,” Ernest grinned. Technically, Mal’s dad hadn’t been tall unless he’d shifted into a taller body, but he didn’t think that Mal wanted to be congratulated on inheriting his mother’s build. It didn’t matter that it was the truth, and that he barely resembled his dad at all. Ernest could empathize with his frustration in never seeing proof of his absentee parent whenever he looked at himself in the mirror. The only thing he’d inherited from his mother was her poor eyesight.

  “Want a muffin? I made muffins.”

  Mal’s eyebrows arched in obvious interest. “Lemon poppy seed?”

  “You know it,” he said, swinging his backpack off his shoulder and unzipping it. He fished one of the still-warm muffins out and handed it to Mal. It was nice to know that Mal’s favorite kind of muffin hadn’t changed. Waking up early to whip up a welcome back batch hadn’t been a waste after all. “So what does your class schedule look like? You picked the toughest ones, I’ll bet.”

  “Intro to Constitutional Law with Aunt Roxanne, AP Environmental Science with Baker, Penology with Blake, Athletics with James, and Classical Strategy with your father.” Mal took a bite out of the muffin, adding, “My elective is Advanced Study Capoeira with Newmeyer. It’s good to see that the Academy is acquiring true experts in their fields, finally.”

  “I’ve got weightlifting as my elective. Not as exciting as capoeira, but I figure I’ll need to keep working on increasing my strength. I’m taking Intermediate Acting with Ghostlight, Physical Science with Lukwago, and Hand-to-Hand Combat and Classical Strategy with Dad.” Ernest tried not to let on how pleased he was that they had a class together. Strategy was one of his weaker subjects, and Mal knew that. He thought about asking him if he wanted to study together, but he didn’t have the time to work up the right words. Later, he would try again. He was sure he would. “But right now, I’ve gotta run, ‘cause I’ve got Posthuman History with Carter.”

  “That’s in Warne Hall.”

  Which was on the entirely opposite end of the campus. It was two miles and change, easy.

  “I know! But I’ve got eight, maybe nine minutes to get there, and— ”

  “You’re going to be late,” Mal informed him through a mouthful of lemony crumbs.

  “I can make it! Don’t jinx me!” Ernest said, shrugging his backpack back on and picking up speed again. “I’ll see you in strat, Mal!”

  But a bright flash of lime green and red in his peripheral vision waylaid him, preventing him from skidding into Warne Hall just under the wire. Ernest smelled smoke and something oily-sharp that he couldn’t quite place, but that he didn’t like. Most people could have claimed to not have seen anything as they ran past, but his senses were too acute. He knew exactly what he’d seen. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. Not on good conscience.

  Mentally adding missing class and maybe getting in trouble to the growing list of things he’d need to apologize for, Ernest stopped, sighed, and doubled back. He heard and recognized the voices before he saw either of the boys that they belonged to.

  “Dude, I told you. I was joking, okay?” Maks Petrov said, his voice oddly high and his words bouncing along rapidly. “That’s a thing that I do. I’m equal or greater to an entire barrel of laughs. I wasn’t being serious.”

  “Then keep your mouth shut,” Kenneth McKay snarled.

  There were only forty-seven other students in his class, and since most of them had been attending the Academy since the first block, Ernest knew at least a little bit about all of them. Kenneth had been at the school for as long as he had, but he didn’t know him very well on a personal level. He knew Kenneth’s reputation— or, more accurately, he knew how Kenneth had earned his reputation— and that was more than enough for him. His red-sleeved training shirt screamed ARSON across the back, a moniker that doubled as a warning. Kenneth was a pyrokinetic with a bad temper. It looked like Maks was finding that out the hard way.

  “Consider my piehole buttoned,” Maks said with a laugh that didn’t sound right. Kenneth had him backed up against a tree. They were far enough off the main path that nobody would have seen them, far enough from the main buildings that nobody would have heard them. Nobody but Ernest, that was.

  “You just think you’re so friggin’ funny, don’t you?” Kenneth said, pushing against Maks’ chest with the flat of his palm. The back of his head hit the tree with an unpleasant thump.

  “No? Yes? Really not sure what you’re fishing for. I don’t think about it much, usually. I mean sure, sometimes I toss together a pun or two and glaze it with some nice wordplay, but I— ”

  “Shut up!” Kenneth interrupted, his hands bunching at his sides. Maks didn’t take the warning for what it was. Instead of stopping, his chatter picked up speed like a runaway car with its brakes cut.

  “I say a lot of dumb stuff, and sometimes people laugh. Apparently, you are not one of those people. That’s okay. Really, man. I don’t take it personally. As much as I try to be entertainment that’s appropriate for all audiences, I’m not for everyone. You could even say that— ”

  But what Kenn
eth had to say to that could be summed up with a clenched fist. He cocked his arm back before swinging, putting power and strength behind the punch. Maks staggered from the blow. Kenneth hit him again before he could recover, and he fell. Hard. He curled up, bracing his arms over his head defensively. It made Ernest a little sick to think about, but there was a good chance that Maks had gotten his butt kicked into his teeth before. He knew how to protect his neck and face. He knew to draw his knees up, since bruised shins were better than bruised internal organs. In short, Maks Petrov knew how to take a beating.

  Ernest wasn’t in the habit of getting in the middle of fights. His reputation alone tended to make it unfair. His reputation as the son of the Commander packed a punch - and since his actual punches could go through solid steel, Ernest had to be careful of when and how he got involved in fights.

  But he couldn’t tolerate unfairness, and there was no way anyone would have considered Kenneth’s beatdown fair.

  “C’mon, Freakshow!” Kenneth barked, kicking him. “Get up! Show me what you’ve got!”

  “Sorry, man,” Maks said with a high, wheezing laugh. It reminded Ernest of the anguished squeal of a stepped-on chew toy. “No free shows.”

  Kenneth didn’t seem to care that Maks wasn’t giving him the fight he wanted. If anything, it made him angrier. He kept kicking, the shirt on his back spitting smoke. Kenneth was a firebug, so his hot temper translated into real heat. The curling-dark edges of his cotton shirt warned that he was close to bursting into full flame, and Ernest seriously doubted that Maks was fireproof.

  Ernest straightened up to his full height, squaring his shoulders. He’d hit six feet even a little after his fourteenth birthday, so when he wasn’t slouching, he towered over most of the other boys. Kenneth was no exception. He had half a foot on him, easy.

  “Leave him alone,” he said in his best serious voice. The Commander was known for the booming authority he could put into a single word, but Ernest was still working on mastering that ability. Being imposing took a lot of confidence, and that stuff wasn’t easy to scrape together on short notice. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m pretty sure that he got your point. So lay off.”

  It was hard to say which of the two looked more gobsmacked to see him. Kenneth’s expression quickly shifted from surprise to disgust, but Maks was frozen in wide-eyed stupefaction. Instead of paying attention to the guy trying to turn him into a lightly toasted smear, he stared at Ernest.

  “What’re you going to do, Champ? Tattle to daddy?”

  “No,” Ernest said, popping his knuckles as he stepped closer. “I don’t think I’ll have to get him involved.”

  Kenneth didn’t seem very comfortable with that answer. The bully had to crane his neck to look up at him. He didn’t seem to like that, either. Ernest could almost see him sizing him up in his head, calculating his chances of taking him out if they tangled. He had his chest puffed out, like that evened out the difference in their sizes.

  “It’ll take a lot more heat than you’re packing to burn me.” Ernest told him, low and firm. He tried to make each word sound like I’m not kidding around. “So if I were you, I’d cut right now and walk away.”

  Kenneth’s lip curled, but his posture changed. He was on the retreat, backing down without a fuss, and not a moment too soon. Ernest hadn’t been bluffing when he’d said that he couldn’t burn him. It wouldn’t have hurt him if he’d tried his luck with a fireball or two, but Kenneth could have lit up the brush around them— and Maks, too, for that matter. He was relieved that he wouldn’t have to add apologies for burned-up school clothes on top of everything else.

  “Back off, Freakshow,” Kenneth spat, jabbing a finger at Maks. It was probably meant to be a threatening gesture, but Maks didn’t look all that threatened. Beaten up, but not intimidated. If scaring him had been Arson’s goal, he’d failed. “Your boyfriend here can’t watch your skinny ass all the time.”

  Ernest’s face heated, but he held firm, venting his irritation with a sigh that made his nostrils flare. There was no sense in prolonging the fight by arguing with him. The ugly little implication seemed to be aimed more at Maks than him, anyway.

  Kenneth turned on his heel like he figured that he was the self-righteous one out of the three of them, stomping back toward the trail. He heard the clumsy plodding of his heavy combat boots long after he disappeared into the brush.

  “Sorry about that,” Ernest said, offering Maks a hand up. “Are you okay?”

  Maks stared at his hand for a long moment, like he didn’t know what to do with it. He looked more intimidated by the help Ernest was offering than the threat that Kenneth had dropped before lumbering away. He stooped, making it easier for Maks to reach him. Ernest got a good grip on his skinny forearm, pulling him to his feet. He wobbled a little, but his legs held him upright. Ernest was grateful for small favors.

  “Oh, sure. Sure. I’ll have you know that wasn’t my first time taking a punch.” Maks coughed, gagging, and wiped his face against his forearm. Blood smeared across his cheek in a messy streak. He let his head fall back with a theatrical, gurgling sigh.

  “Kenneth’s kind of...well, he’s kind of a jerk. There’s not really two ways about it.”

  “Kind of? Eesh. I’m surprised that he talks to you like that. I mean, you’re you. Besides, that was kind of a crap line to exit on, don’t you think?” Maks said, his voice thick from his nosebleed. “If that’s the worst insult he’s got in his repertoire, Kenny needs to get some new material. Hell, if that’s the worst thing that he can think of, he needs to get out of the woods more.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ernest said again, though he wasn’t sure why he was apologizing. Aside from his injuries, Maks didn’t seem too shaken up. He was trying to be funny, even. He would have been more open to him playing it off as a joke if he hadn’t been dripping red all over God’s green earth. “And, uh, you shouldn’t put your head back like that. Lean forward a little, and— here, lemme help.”

  “Don’t let my copious bleeding fool you. I’m fine! You don’t need to do— ”

  “But I don’t mind,” Ernest interjected quickly. The bit about copious bleeding was no joke. He was worried that if he left Maks to his own devices, he’d either make himself sick from swallowing blood, or he’d pass out on his way to the nurse’s office.

  Ernest felt bad for him, plain and simple. Maks was a small guy, and he was new, so he really didn’t need anyone punching him in the face on his first day of classes. More than that, he didn’t need to get known as the guy who’d gotten punched in the face on the first day of classes. As a new student, he didn’t have the same point of view as the kids who’d been there since the first block.

  Ernest felt like he’d been working up to the third block for his entire life; getting this close to the capstone year and graduation was like feeling traces of the warmth coming from the light at the end of a tunnel. Reaching the third block was an accomplishment of endurance. Some people thought that it was unfair to let new kids into the race so close to the end of the marathon, but Ernest felt like it all evened out. The new kids had their own disadvantages, and they were big ones. They didn’t know how things worked in the Academy. They didn’t know the rules that weren’t written down in the student handbook.

  There were three main categories that the late additions fell into: either they were late-blooming Alphas whose powers had just kicked in, they were problem posters with crimes hefty enough to earn them mandatory training, or they had been sitting on the waitlist forever. He wasn’t sure which category Maks fell into, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was that Maks was new, and that newness meant that some of the more insecure kids would treat him like an obstacle between them and their dreams of being on a public team. If there was one thing that history had taught him, it was that people who felt threatened did some of the ugliest things under the flimsiest of justifications. Ernest had seen the third block politics play out before, and he’d promised himself t
hat he’d never be a part of it. He’d broken that promise of non-involvement - and on the first day of the block to boot— but at least he wasn’t on the wrong side of the issue.

  “Well, I.” Maks visibly hesitated, then peeled his crusty fingers away from his nose. “Okay.”

  Ernest fished a handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to Maks so that he could sop up the blood. Once he’d soaked up some of the mess, Ernest leaned down and gently pinched the bridge of Maks’ nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  “I’m gonna put pressure on it for a couple minutes,” Ernest explained. “If it doesn’t quit bleeding, you’ll have to go see Nurse Bliss.”

  “You’re good at this.”

  With his nose plugged, Maks’ voice sounded like it belonged to a goofy handpuppet. That didn’t stop him from talking. It hardly slowed him down.

  “Practice, that’s all. One of the kids I played with when I was little was a pro at getting herself banged up. She was always picking fights with one of our other friends. Not fight-fights, I mean. It was friendly and all— they just tried their sparring moves out on each other when the adults weren’t looking. I got good at playing nurse.”

  The nervous ramble was only meant to pad his invasion of Maks’ personal space, but thinking about his childhood friends dredged up an unexpected ache in Ernest’s chest. He’d seen Mal and Rosario almost daily right up to the end of the first block. They’d been so close growing up, they’d considered each other extensions of their own families. Even when Mal hadn’t been around, his mom had still been Auntie Amira to Ernest.

  He’d sort of hoped that the three of them would fall back into their old friendship now that they were together again, but running past Mal on the way to class had been the first the two of them had talked since he’d gotten back in town.

  Mal had never been the friendliest person, but he had more sharp edges than Ernest remembered him having. He tried hard not to think about Mal’s temper tantrum during the forum assembly, because it made him embarrassed for him. Embarrassed, and sad. He hoped that most of the rumors in the air were whizzing right on by Mal’s sharp ears. Rosario had her hands full with her new partner— according to his dad, she’d been paired up with the jumper— so that left Ernest feeling like he didn’t have much of a right to impose on them.